


Dirty Sock Me, Baby

by camerasparring



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Richie Tozier, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, For some reason Richie hates Maroon 5 don't at me, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Top Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: Richie keeps his socks on during sex.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 193





	Dirty Sock Me, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I made this about Maroon 5 and horrible sock puns, I don't know, man.

Richie fucking hates Maroon 5. 

They’ve been around for years, slowly torturing him with constant hits, and only in the privacy of his own home, of his own _mind_ will he admit that they are catchy.

Eddie’s been in the shower approximately five minutes, which means he’s only one-tenth of the way through his routine, so Richie knows he has some time. He flips on his bluetooth speaker, pulls up Spotify, and starts his “Folding for Fools” playlist. Of course, Adam Levine’s voice is the first thing that plays, and Richie groans, but then his hips wiggle on instinct. Traitors. 

He zones out on the soft thread count of Eddie’s new sweater, pale blue and striking. Last time Eddie wore it they were walking around the neighborhood, hand in hand, and when Richie chanced a sideways glance, his legs almost gave out from the ethereal fucking beauty of his boyfriend’s big, brown eyes and a scandalous peek of collarbone. The memory of Eddie leading him back to their place burns him through - how Eddie sat him down in a chair, peeled off his pants and slipped fingers into him one at a time. The sweater felt decadent under Richie’s hands, just like it does today. 

The distraction is too good, because his hips are shifting mindlessly back and forth to the music, and then he feels a small, lithe form cuddle up against his spine. It cuts starkly through the soothing voice of Mr. Levine, who is _still_ singing. 

“Eddie, _fuck_!” 

But Eddie doesn’t jump back. Richie scrambles for his phone to stop the music and catches a glimpse of skin as he turns back around. 

Eddie is… completely nude. And dripping wet. 

“What the hell, bro, did you-”

“Were you just _dancing_?” Eddie asks, and Richie shivers at the rough drag of his voice. And the press of something hard and teasing at the crack of his ass. It fumbles all his senses. 

“I, uh. I didn’t think you-”

“I thought I heard something, so I came out all worried,” Eddie drawls, syrupy, that tone he gets when he wants to _start_ something, and Richie is both shocked and hideously aroused, “and here I find you shaking your little ass to Top 40.” 

His hands find Richie’s hips, shaking gently, as if to demonstrate. Richie laughs, blushing. Eddie takes him apart _easy_. 

“My ass is anything but little, Eds.”

“Nah, it’s fucking bony as shit,” Eddie says, snaking a hand down to grip around the meat of it.

“Fuck you, there’s a hold there!” 

“Barely,” Eddie scoffs, squeezing again. He also shifts forward, grinding his dick back into Richie’s ass. Richie can feel the water soaking through his clothes from Eddie’s damp body, but he presses back anyway. Who the fuck cares. Eddie does all the laundry. Richie’s just the folding boy, baby.

Luckily, as head Laundry Boy, Eddie must be considering the pre-come stains, because he drops Richie’s pants without another word. 

“Oh, he wants to _access_ to the bony ass, I see how it is.”

“After all that shaking? I’m not a-” Eddie’s hands fall from his shoulders. “Richie, are you wearing the wrong socks again?” 

Richie looks down. Under the puddled pile of his discarded pants are, resolutely, his favorite pair of socks. One of Eddie’s daffodil yellow work socks (almost as soft as his fucking sweater) on the right, and a polka dot red and blue ( _not_ patriotic, just fucking cool) on his left. He throws his head back with a laugh.

“Of course, that’s what _favorite_ means. You wear them all the time.”

Eddie slaps at his ass, just a little. Richie turns _red_.

“No, it just means _favorite_ , not _fight your boyfriend every time he tries to put them through a fucking wash cycle_.” 

“Yeah, dirty sock me, baby,” Richie groans, hardening up quick.

Eddie slaps him a little harder this time. Fuck _yes_. 

“That was the fucking _worst_ ,” Eddie sighs into his neck before following with a wet kiss, though Richie figures that’s more spit than shower. Shifting his hips back, Richie’s met with the gorgeous swell of Eddie’s erection. 

“You are _hard_ ,” he sighs. 

“Mmm,” Eddie hums, licking down the length of Richie’s spine. Richie plants two hands on the exceptionally tall piles of t-shirts he’s accumulated over the years, which he still folds every single week, and braces himself. 

“You gonna put that dick to good use?” 

“What, like this?” 

Eddie shoves his hips forward, thrusting the length of his cock right over Richie’s hole. It fucking _flutters_ under his touch. The hard velvet ridges of him just passing through, almost as a suggestion. 

But Eddie’s good at follow through. 

  
  


Richie feels a bit like he’s been cast in a bad porno, the way his pants hang from his ankles as Eddie rails him into the bed, both legs slung over Eddie’s hunched shoulder. 

“Maybe I _should_ \- fuck, Eddie, _there_ ,” Richie whines, sweat accumulating in the crooks behind his knees where Eddie is holding, biting like a feral animal at the bone of his ankle, smiling bright down at him as his hips piston forward. “Maybe I should call these my- _shit_ , my lucky socks.”

Eddie laughs and stutters inside, so Richie’s hand crawls to reach for Eddie’s hip to edge him on. 

“Shut up, _hah_ , shut up about the fucking socks already, asshole.” 

Richie’s delirious with his creeping orgasm and Eddie’s smug grin and the fact that this is apparently how he spends Sundays now, only six months in and startlingly domestic and in love, screwing like rabbits on a whole pile of laundry Richie will have to fold again as soon as they’re done. 

He throws his hands up to find a pillow to scream into, already feeling undone, and accidentally smacks his phone first.

The speakers echo a grating pop tune as Richie shoots all over his chest and hand, crescendoing to the grainy high voice of Adam Levine.

Eddie grunts a “what the _fuck_ ” before he falls apart, too. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
